


Oracle Figures

by billspilledquill



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Gen, Microfic, Post-Canon, so this world gave us “you were fond of light weren’t you” and we just ignored it huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: “You watched me die.”“I shot you.”
Relationships: Matsuda Touta & Yagami Light
Kudos: 18





	Oracle Figures

**Author's Note:**

> Was written in October. Don’t remember why I wrote it. Probably because of the lack of gen fic involving Light/Matsuda dynamics.

It took Matsuda three minutes after reaching three in the morning and a slammed door and a tired slump on his bed that he glanced at the side of his window and managed to say, “I think you’re dead.”

“You watched me die.”

“I shot you.”

The shadow perched on his window twitched, swayed by the wind. “How was the mission?”

His suit was stained, of course; dirtied, old enough to not matter. He ought to change it. He wasn’t compelled to move. “A drug cartel,” Matsuda said, flat on his bed, unbothered. “A tough chase, that one, but we got the upper hand in the end. Some struggled. Some died. Justice prevails, or something. I’m tired.” He managed to peek an eye at the shadow. “Was it you that said that?”

“What did I say?”

Matsuda made a vague gesture. It was clear, however dead the boy was, however dead the boy _is_ , that the boy had said something important.

The boy laughed; a breeze. “I have said a lot of things in the past, Matsuda. Big words. Grand speech. You have to be more specific than that.”

“You said something,” Matsuda said, his eyes shut. His voice came out muffled when he buried his head in the pillow. “Something about justice.” He tried to remember. “I don’t remember,” he said.

“Then I certainly don’t,” the boy chirped. “Do you know what happens when we are dead, Matsuda? Do you know where we end up?”

It was three in the morning, only ageless teenagers and ghosts stayed awake. Matsuda, like any good man of his age with a tight schedule on his agenda, slept.

The boy’s room was left empty. The room was swept clean by his mother every week. His things constituted of manuals, textbooks, lined notebooks, and a couple of sharpened pencils. He was a good student and an even better son. He would even be better the year after, and if he didn’t charm a girl so much so that she hanged herself after his death, he might have become a decent lover as well.

This room was forbidden. His sister was banned from entering it, for fear of corrupting her. There was fear, a metaphysical one, that his mother couldn’t shake off, and didn’t want to. So it was cleaned, and so it was otherwise forbidden to enter. The boy’s friends had tried to visit. He was quite popular at school, too. 

The Yagami family wasn’t left alone. The boy was famous in the memorable kind, notorious in the wrong way; _he was_ _good_ , some claimed. _He had done the right thing._

Matsuda was told by the wind that it was in this room that Yagami Light, a pencil in hand, his elbow on a clean desk, began to understand that if there was a god in this world and ordered him to stop, he wasn’t going to listen.

Matsuda woke up knowing exactly what kind of dream that was. Yagami Light must had the same dream once. Those who wish were better off dead, or at least, like him, should pretend to eat breakfast with a semblance of enjoyment in his chewing.

“Yeah,” Matsuda said over the phone, barely resisting the urge to shout, “I know that today is my day off. I also know that we chased after some gunmen— drug dealers? until _very_ late at night, but I haven’t written my report. Surely I have to go write the report!”

A pause. “No, I don’t mind going now.”

“No,” Matsuda said, “it’s not because of that case.”

“No,” Matsuda said, exasperated now, “I swear, Aizawa, it’s three years. I have let go. I did.”

Matsuda cleaned his hands. He stalked to the bed and let his head fall back against his pillow, his eyes drifiting to the window again. A fleeting wind welcomed him as he gripped his phone tighter still.

“Yes, I liked him,” Matsuda said, but Aizawa didn’t ask that question. The line had went dead already.

“You did?”

Matsuda flipped his phone, set it down to the nightstand, covered his eyes with his elbow and let the world burn like it wanted. “You usually aren’t here in the morning,” Matsuda said.

“But you said you liked me.”

“I’m tired.”

“Of me?”

Matsuda couldn’t bring himself to say _no_. “This world hasn’t changed a bit since you died.”

“You wanted me to change it?”

Matsuda said, “I killed you.”

“Not you,” the wind said. “Not exactly.”

“I guess I have given up on you,” Matsuda replied, although unwilling, as always, to be in a discussion with a teenager with too much time on his hands to start a genocide. “I guess the world have given up on you.”

“You can bring me back.”

“No one can bring the dead back.”

“Anyone can bring him back. Anyone can be him.”

Matsuda knew about the pamphlets, had witnessed the cries at the police station. _Bring him back! Bring him back! You killed him. You killed justice._ In his own head, voices echoed.

“No one can be you,” Matsuda said. “No one can go as far you.”

“Ah.” And there would be a terrible, terrible smile; Matsuda kept his eyes closed. “So you remembered.”

There was silence. A smell of bullet against flesh, burnt meat. Matsuda opened to see the boy kneeling beside him, his eyes unblinking.

“Do you know what happens when we’re dead, Matsuda?” Yagami Light asked. The wind asked. “Do you know how to touch the dead?”

Matsuda didn’t. He didn’t know how to touch the dead anymore he knew how to touch a beloved. “Are you going to show me?”

“The dead don’t rot, Matsuda,” Light said. His suit flashed holes, and every time the wind picked up, the boy’s empty chest will make a hollow sound, like it was weeping. “The world rots. The dead are lucky.”

“If I touch you,” Matsuda started. “If I do, you will diseappear.”

“No,” Light said, softly. Here was a murderer. Here was a student learning what he shouldn’t. “No, Matsuda. If you touch me, you will.”


End file.
